


Leshanot

by MushroomDoggo



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Gay Richie Tozier, Gay Stanley Uris, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 02:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20667764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MushroomDoggo/pseuds/MushroomDoggo
Summary: Stanley Uris and Richard Tozier have very little in common. So little, in fact, that it can be difficult to imagine how the two of them became friends at all. Even the two of them probably have very little idea why they feel so close.After Stan walks out on his own Bar Mitzvah, Richie follows him. The boys discuss why they feel so out of place in Derry, Maine... and even among the other Losers.





	Leshanot

Cover image by [kookukecartoons](https://kookukecartoons.tumblr.com/) ([cinnamontoastcronch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamontoastcronch) on ao3)

~~~~~

“Reflecting on the meaning of what I just read, the word _ leshanot _ comes up a lot, which means, um, to change, to transform.”

Stan’s words echoed through the synagogue in a way that reminded Richie of the school cafeteria. It didn’t do what it did for his father-- for, when the Rabbi spoke, the echoes made him seem so much bigger than he truly was. The man with a voice that could fill a room. 

When Stan spoke, though, with his youthful prepubescent voice and his nervous stutters and ‘um’s, the echoes made him seem so small. Even to Richie.

“...everyone, I think, has some memories they’re prouder of than others, right?” Stan was saying when Richie tuned back in. So hard to focus in a room like this. It was so stuffy in here, almost smothering.

His mother looked uncomfortable, too, though she refused to fan herself or even to pull her hair back.

“And maybe that’s why change is so scary,” Stan said. He licked his lips a little. “‘Cause the things we wish we could leave behind… the whispers we wish we could silence… the nightmares we most wanna wake up from…”

Richie peeled his sweaty bangs away from his face and tucked them to the side. He could feel the steely gaze of his mother slide over him as he made this inappropriate move. By her standards, of course. God, if she knew what he got up to in the Barrens…

But Richie obeyed the non-order and tucked his hands between his knees to keep them from wandering.

“...the memories we wish we could change… secrets we feel like we have to keep…” Stan looked down at his shoes. “...are the hardest to walk away from.”

Richie’s heart was pounding against his ribcage. Had that been going on long? Why would his heart be hammering so aggressively? He reached up to readjust his glasses and, in his evident nervousness, smeared a finger along the lens. 

“Maybe I don’t want to forget…” Stan said. His hands gripped the microphone, slick with sweat.

Richie took a deep breath, let it out, and began to bounce his leg. Was it getting stuffier in here? Getting hard to breathe? He suddenly felt that the collar of his shirt was far too tight, that the gunk he had combed through his hair that morning was crawling all over his scalp like hundreds of tiny bugs. 

Good God, Stan was going to say something he regretted. He was going to give too much away, wasn’t he? Say one word too many and--

“Sit still.” Richie’s mother ordered.

Richie halted his leg’s nervous jittering, suddenly flooding the rest of his body with ten times burning anxiety which had been smoldering in his gut.

“Maybe, i-if that’s what today is all about…” Stan’s fingers drummed against the microphone one last time, and a peaceful stoniness came over his face. “Forget it, right?”

Richie’s heart stopped completely. No, no, not today!

Stan’s father rushed in and reached for the microphone. “Thank you, Stan--”

But Stan was far from finished. “U-uh, today--” he said, skillfully dodging his father’s grasp and stepping down from the platform in the center of the room “--today, I’m supposed to become a man, but I don’t-- I don’t f-feel any different!”

Richie leaned forward in his seat, almost imperceptibly, and adjusted his glasses once again.

“I--” Stan whirled to face his father, an iron grip on the microphone. “I know I’m a loser.”

Richie clutched at the cheap fabric of his pant legs, finding little to hold onto.

“And, no matter what…” Stan straightened up. “I always fucking will be.”

A wave of discomfort rolled through the crowd, some murmuring to those beside them, some gasping, one particularly dramatic woman outright wailing. Stan threw the microphone down, and it wailed, too. His father managed to catch it just before it hit the floor. As he reeled in the piece of equipment, he watched in awe as his son turned on his heel and walked away.

The boiling, bubbling, itching just beneath Richie’s skin exploded in the manner it typically did-- inappropriate humor. It was his job, after all, to put the attention on himself. To save his friends from the unwanted spotlight. He shot to his feet and began to applaud, slow and heavy, like he’d seen mediocre actors do on his favorite sitcoms. 

Except, on his favorite sitcoms, the audience tended to erupt into raucous and ingenuine laughter. Richie’s own antics only got him yanked back down into his seat by his mother.

Stan strode across the room, delicate white silks rippling behind him. He tossed one last steely glance over his shoulder at his father and pushed through the double doors out of the synagogue. 

As the doors settled, swinging lightly on their hinges, Richie waited for Stan’s father to say something which might save the event. Something awkward and parent-y, something like "Well, he may not think he’s gotten older, but he sure seems like a teenager to me!" Or, maybe, “Sorry, folks. That’s what I get for not proof-reading his speech.”

But Rabbi Uris didn’t say either of those things. He held the microphone down near his navel, grinding his teeth, watching the doors swing back and forth and back and forth. He cleared his throat. He blinked one long and deliberate blink.

At last, he lifted the microphone to his lips, and said “Thank you, everyone.”

More murmurs rippled through the synagogue, louder than the last. People on the ends of pews were gathering their things to leave. 

Richie stood.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His mother barked at a publicly acceptable volume.

Richie looked down at his mother, her knees pressed together, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap-- a model of perfect posture and picket-fence, small town involvement. If there was one thing she hated, it was being the center of attention.

“T-to go see Stan,” Richie said.

His mother reached out to grab his sleeve again. “I won’t have you chasing after that boy,” she said. Then, as an afterthought, “Not after the scene he caused.”

Richie jerked his arm away from his mother. Without a word, he turned and inched past the confused onlookers. As he broke away and moved down the aisle, he could have sworn he heard someone say “Is that the Tozier boy?”

If there was one thing Richie hated, it was being known as “The Tozier Boy.”

His footsteps were almost unbearably loud in these stupid, too-tight shoes. Richie was accustomed to his silent, sneaker-clad feet being able to slink about unnoticed. Despite what so many thought, Richie didn’t always want to be seen. There were plenty of times he’d much rather blend perfectly into the wall and be passed by, unnoticed, by very nearly everyone.

Richie followed Stan’s lead out through the double doors, which lead not to the sunny haze of an August afternoon, but rather to a sneaky little hallway tucked beside the main room.

“Stan?” Richie called. His voice bounced back to him. “You there?”

The sound of a sniffle echoed from around a corner.

Richie dropped the door without another thought and pressed forward. “Stan?”

Another sniffle. “Go home, Richie.”

Richie scoffed. “You know me at all, Uris?”

He marched down the hallway, not so much thinking about what he would do once he got there as his need to be there. Richie was always the one who made things easier, after all. He didn’t know what to say to make you feel better, exactly, but he did know what to say to make you focus on him instead of whatever else was weighing you down.

Stan was not crumpled in a puddle on the floor. His face wasn’t contorted in anger or sadness. He wasn’t even hitting things, like Richie would have. He was standing against the wall, head bowed, crying very softly.

“Oh.”

Stan turned his head away and wiped his face on what was probably a very expensive sleeve. “I told you to go home.”

“After that show you put on? No fuckin’ way,” Richie said. Stan cringed. “That took some serious balls, Stanley. Guess they didn’t chop ‘em off, after all, huh?”

Stan sighed. “Funny.”

“I know it.”

Stan clenched and unclenched his fist very slowly.

“So… you wanna get outta here?” Richie suggested. He leaned against the corner of the wall, crossing one leg over the other. Very casual, he thought. “No offense, but this is a shitty hiding spot. Your dad is totally gonna find you here.”

“I shouldn’t be hiding,” Stan said.

Richie scoffed. “Oh, what, ‘cause you’re a man now, or whatever? I know lots of men who run away from their problems.”

“That doesn’t mean they should.”

Richie shrugged. “I guess.” Richie pushed his glasses back up. “We could, uh… we could go to the arcade.”

Stan rolled his head back and hit it against the wall. “I don’t wanna go to the arcade, Richie.”

Richie nodded, swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

Stan--eyes closed, head still rolled back--slid down against the wall and into a sitting position on the floor. Here, he let out another deep and affected sigh.

“You want me to go?” Richie asked.

“I dunno.”

Richie was suddenly very aware of himself. The way he stood there, looking at his friend who seemed so pained… he wished his legs were stronger, his shoulders broader, his posture more reassuring. But he was just a scrawny little boy in an ill-fitting suit, standing several yards away and watching like a child watches their parents fighting.

He had never been the kind of person for serious conversations. No, Richie was a fun and light-hearted guy. Easy-going. Easy-talking. Easy… an easy person. 

Richie straightened up as best he could, pushed his glasses up his nose, and walked towards his friend. He slid down the wall, too, just like Stan had.

“Hey,” Richie said.

Stan was silent, his head tilted away from Richie’s.

“Hey, Stan the Man,” Richie said. Then he grinned, privately happy to have found new meaning in the old nickname.

Stan hesitated. “What?”

“I liked it.”

Stan looked over at Richie. “Liked what?”

“Y’know. All that junk you said. It was pretty good,” Richie elbowed Stan in the ribs. “Give ol’ Bill a run for his money on the writer stuff.”

Stan laughed at that. “Thanks.”

Richie tilted his chin upwards. “But of course, Stanley, ol’ chap! You are my dearest chum, after all.”

“I am?” Stan asked. “Not… not Eddie?”

Richie’s heart skipped a beat, though he hid it expertly. “That fraidy-cat? Nah, no way. He gets on my nerves.”

Stan clenched his jaw. “But--”

“Stan, I’m not gonna argue who’s best friends with who, it’s too girly.” Richie looked over at Stan, his eyes narrow and focused. “We’re all friends.”

Stan nodded. “I know, I know. But it’s different with us, though.”

“Different?”

“I thought so.”

“How?”

Stan swallowed. “Well, I dunno.” But he knew. “Just feels different than with the Bill and Eddie and all them…”

“Hm.” Richie didn’t quite know what to say. 

He knew what Stan was talking about, of course-- there was something different about the way he talked with Stan. He had always supposed that it was something to do with how Stan was. So quiet and serious. It was hard, in a lot of ways, for the two of them to get along at all.

And, as far as relationships went, there was definitely something about the way he talked with Eddie. He didn’t like to think about it, though.

“You really liked what I said?” Stan asked again.

“Yeah, man, I already said that.”

“What parts did you like?” Stan pushed. “Just b-because… well, my dad’s gonna tear it apart. I’d like to hear something good first. So I can have it in my head.”

Richie sighed. “I liked the swearing part.”

Stan laughed again. “I guessed that.”

Richie nodded. “Yeah, well. You know me mighty well, Stan Urine.” He paused. Now that he mentioned it, there was something about the speech that was picking at his brain. “That stuff about… secrets. You know you don’t gotta keep secrets from us, right?”

Stan chewed his lip. “Well, back atcha, Richie.”

Richie blinked. “You think I’m keeping secrets? My life is an open book, Stan. What, do I gotta pull down my pants and show you my wang?”

“Beep beep, Richie.”

“Well!” Richie threw his hands up in exasperation, then sighed and dropped them back down onto his thighs. “I’m not keeping any secrets. And I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I know.” Stan nodded. “I know.”

“Well, then, don’t say shit like that.”

“Okay.”

Silence fell between the boys. The chatter from the synagogue could be heard, but not understood. It was dying down. They couldn’t be sure, of course, but it was likely that the moment the last well-meaning townsperson departed Rabbi Uris would begin his apocalyptic rampage.

Or, perhaps, he would do nothing at all. The thought that the Rabbi wouldn’t come looking for them was almost more terrifying than the thought of him storming through this hallway and hauling them off.

Stan folded his arms and rested his elbows on his knees. He leaned forward slightly and placed his head so that his arms cradled it. “You ever think…” He mumbled. “That maybe you can keep secrets from yourself?”

Richie narrowed his eyes. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Stan sighed. Always sighing, that boy. “Well… I dunno. Do you think that maybe bullies lie to themselves and convince themselves that they’re not mean?”

“...No?”

Stan groaned and put his head in his hands. “You know what I mean.”

Richie shook his head. “I’m sure trying, Stan.”

Stan rolled his head to one side, than the other. “You think that… that part of growing up is realizing you don’t know yourself at all?”

Richie huffed. “Why are you reading from the Breakfast Club script? English, please.”

“Richie--”

“Or _ español, Señor _!”

“Richie!” Stan said firmly.

“Alright!” Richie adjusted his glasses and looked down at the floor. “Alright…”

Stan was drumming his fingers on the tops of his knees. His breath was quick and shallow. Richie could tell that he was trying very hard to say something, that his tongue was curling and uncurling behind his teeth as he tried to speak, his every breath in preparation to let lose whatever he held inside.

Richie couldn’t take it anymore. “Stan--”

“I think I’m broken,” Stan said.

Richie blinked. “Well… that’s okay.”

Tears burned in Stan’s eyes. “Doesn’t feel okay.” His voice wavered in that way it sometimes did, where you couldn’t be sure if he was going to cry or scream.

“Yeah…” Richie pulled his knees in towards his chest. “I know. But we’re all a little fucked up, right? That’s why we’re friends, I think.”

Stan sniffled and drew the back of his hand under his nose. “Bill.”

Richie squinted at Stan. “What about him?”

“He makes me feel less broken.” Stan smiled a bit, just to himself. “And you. You make me feel… well, not really less broken. But like there’s someone else out there who broke in the same place.”

Richie stiffened. “What place is that?”

Stan looked over at Richie, suddenly terrified that he had said too much. “Just… I dunno.”

“Seems like you know.”

“I don’t.”

“Is it ‘cause of our parents?” Richie said.

Stan straightened up. “What about our parents?”

Richie shrugged. “Well… Your dad wants you to be perfect. My mom wants me to be perfect. We’re not. Simple.”

“Don’t all parents want that?”

Richie laughed, loud and brief, with a little snort at the end. “Not the way my mom does. I feel like she can read my thoughts sometimes. She just flips on me for no reason. I always blame it on the last dirty joke I thought of, y’know? Like she somehow heard it, but she can’t really get mad at me for. ‘Cause then I’d know she can read minds.”

Richie stopped himself before he said anything else stupid. Sometimes words just tumbled out of his mouth, without his knowledge or consent.

“Hm.” Stan picked mindlessly at the edge of his sleeve. He was used to Richie’s word vomit. “Do you think she knows?”

“Knows… about my dirty jokes?”

“About, like… other stuff.”

Richie’s cheeks flushed instantly, though he couldn’t put a finger on why. “I-I’m not hiding anything. Other than my Andrew Dice Clay-esque sense of humor. And the clown stuff.”

Stan scoffed. “Right.”

“What other stuff?” Richie pressed.

Stan shrugged. “About… well, about the other guys. About Eddie.”

Richie rolled his eyes. “For the love of fuck, Stan, why are you on me about Eddie? Eddie is a parent’s wet dream! He’s so clean and anxious and-and-- and safety-conscious! No way could my mom get mad at him.”

Stan was silent, just chewing on his lip and looking at the floor.

And Richie thought. Really thought about the times he had talked about Eddie at home. About the times Eddie had dropped by to ask him to come play. About the times he had begged his mother to let Eddie stay over, to let Eddie come with, anything to spend more time with his friend Eddie. 

Every time, as far as he could remember, his mother had reacted with irrational anger. Something deep and primal and unexplainable. Something that would cause her to clam up and refuse even the simplest of things.

“Shit…” Richie ran a hand through his hair. “Does my mom hate Eddie?”

Stan winced. So close, Rich. So close to the point. “Something like that.”

And Richie knew that wasn’t quite it. Because, while he may have been a little comedian, he was smart. He knew, logially, that Eddie had done nothing to upset his mother. That Eddie never could-- he had been raised that way. He would always be a perfect son, and a perfect friend for a boy to have, so long as he was careful not to swear.

Another reason stirred in the recesses on Richie’s mind. He was careful not to poke at it, lest the thought consume him.

“Who do your parents hate?” Richie asked. “Me?”

Stan made a face that Richie couldn’t quite identify. “God-- No. They… well, they’re not fans of Bill.”

“Bill?” Richie asked, incredulous. “Denbrough?”

Stan nodded. “I think it’s because I… I like Bill more than I like them.” Technically true. A solid nudge in the right direction.

“That’s not saying much”

“That’s not the point,” Stan said. He clenched his hand into a fist again, this time going as far as to pound it against the floor. “It’s-- well, it’s--”

The frustration reached its climax, and Stan began to cry once again. As badly as he wanted to talk to Richie, to share what he was feeling, the words just wouldn’t come. It was all he could do to drop hints and hope that Richie would get the message, or even just some small part of it.

Richie reached out towards Stan, even going so far as to begin to stand. “Stan, I--”

Stan shrank away from Richie, wordlessly refusing his offer of comfort. 

Richie’s hand faltered. “Can’t you just talk to me, Stan? I don’t know what you’re trying to say. I’m no good with that stuff. You know that.”

“That’s no excuse, Richie,” Stan said. “You can’t just not be good with feelings. If you’re lousy at it, you’d better get to work.”

There was a soft _ plop _ as Richie dropped back to the floor. “I know.”

“So, then, why aren’t you?”

Richie put a hand up to adjust his glasses and left it there, a little shield between him and his friend. He looked down at the floor as he spoke. “I don’t… feel good. When I try. I feel like I’m gonna get sick.” It was Richie’s turn to sniffle, though he did his best to disguise it as some sort of cough. “I’m not a feelings person. I can’t do it.”

Stan shifted. “Of course you can, Rich.”

“No, I really… really can’t.” Richie dropped his hand, but kept his eyes trained downwards. Stan could see the shimmer of uncried tears in those eyes. “Y’know how Eddie gets when he has an asthma attack? A-all jumpy and sweaty and shit? It’s like that.”

“Like… fear?” Stan prompted.

Richie thought a moment. Stan could almost see the gears grinding inside his head. “M-maybe.”

Stan paused. He was so close, he thought. So close. But the wrong word could undo it all.

“Why do you think you’re afraid?” Stan asked.

Richie sniffed hard, like he was getting ready to hock a loogie. “I dunno. Who are you, my fuckin’ therapist?” It was Richie’s words, but not his spirit; no energy, no thrill. Just a listless fulfillment of duty.

“No,” Stan said. He tried to keep his voice from squeaking. “I’m your friend, Richie.”

Richie finally met Stan’s eyes. The Tozier boy and the Uris boy, defined by their parents and very little else. Their eyes shimmered in the same way, Richie thought. Their gaze darted about, not ever landing for more than an instant. Afraid to stop. Afraid that someone might notice. 

He realized that Stan had been right. There was something special about their friendship in particular. It wasn’t obvious, not day to day. But as they looked at each other, their scars peeking out for the first time in years, there was an unspoken understanding there. 

And so, against Richie’s better judgement, more things tumbled out.

“People call me names,” he said, quickly, terrified that the urge to talk would soon leave him.

“What people?” Stan asked. “What names?”

Richie grit his teeth. “Bowers and his goons. Who else?”

“They call everyone names.”

“Not these ones.” Richie swallowed hard. “They called me a… a f--”

And the word wouldn’t come out. It was like a hand had wrapped itself around Richie’s throat, hot and rough, a threat of what might happen should he say the whole thing. But, as it sometimes is, one letter was enough.

Stan only nodded, not offering any reasoning or interpretation that could make it better, not even showing a hint of shock that it had been shared. Just nodded, looking straight ahead at a bit of wall. The nod continued, bobbing up and down, as is to a beat that only Stan could hear. It said ‘of course,’ but it also said ‘I’ve heard that one, too.’

Richie’s hands were grasping for something, anything to hold onto. The smooth wood floors and the fabric stretched over his knees offered no such hold, and so he gripped his own fingers with white knuckles. “Well?” He said.

“Well, what?”

“Well… well, they’re wrong, aren’t they?” Why ask such a thing? Stan could never know the answer. “They’re wrong.”

Stan put his legs out in front of him and stared at his feet. “What do you think, Richie?”

Richie blinked. His breath hitched in his throat. The question bounced back and forth between his ears. What did he think? What did Richie think about that? Why was this the first time he had asked himself that question? “You think I’m--”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“I’m really, really not.”

Stan nodded. “Okay.”

“You think I’m lying, don’t you?” Richie demanded.

“Why would I think that?” Stan asked, eyes trained straight ahead. “You just told me you would never lie to me.”

“Y-yeah,” Richie stuttered, suddenly uncertain. “That’s right.”

Stan stood up. He smoothed out his robes, picked lint off his pant leg, did everything but actually walk away. “You don’t have to talk to me anymore, Richie.”

Richie’s heart was pounding again. All this talk of secrets and feelings and Eddie-- his palms were sweating. He was panting a bit, as well. And… was his vision going strange? Or was that just his imagination?

He scrambled to his feet, which only made matters worse. His head swam. He nearly fell over.

“Richie?” Stan grabbed Richie’s arm to hold him steady. “Richie? You okay?”

Richie was gasping for air like a fish out of water. Is this what Eddie felt like when he reached for his inhaler?

“Richie!” Stan was holding him by the shoulders now. “Richie, say something!”

Richie’s vision reeled as he tried desperately to focus on Stan’s face. He could feel it still, the connection… that sred of hope that maybe he wasn’t alone. That scar over his heart matched the one over Stan’s.

“I--” Richie gasped again. “I--”

Stan dragged him back down to the floor. “Careful!”

“I--” Richie sucked in a breath at last. He had hoped that it would stop the burning in his chest and throat, that he would feel okay once he got that first breath-- but all that came out were tears. A flood of them, streaming down his face, turning the sky blue of his suit dark. “I-- I just--”

Stan clasped Richie’s shoulder in his hand, firm but kind. “I… I know.”

Richie tore his glasses off his face, still crying just as hard. 

“I do, too,” Stan said.

Richie looked up. His face was beet red, and he was looking very small without his glasses. “E-Eddie?” He asked. His voice was shaking with fear. Was it fear at admission? Or fear that he should have to share?

“No. Bill.”

Richie’s face relaxed. “Oh.”

Stan’s own face contorted, the realness of his words coming over him. “Yeah.”

“But it--” Richie scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “It’s only Eddie… y’know?”

Stan nodded. “Sure, Rich.”

“I don’t…” Another little sob escaped. “I don’t know why. It hurts to think about.”

“It does for me, too.”

Richie nodded in understanding and looked down at his glasses. By now, they were more than a little smudged. He lifted his clip-on tie and began to clean the lens, albeit poorly. 

When the smudges had dulled, he put the glasses back on his face. They were a nice way to hide, Richie thought. He didn’t like people seeing a scared little boy when they looked at him. If they saw how scared he was, maybe they wouldn’t want to be around him anymore.

Because they were all so brave. Bill so steadfast and strong. Eddie, dear Eddie, always going along with the rest of the losers, despite his fears. 

And Stan, too. In his own quiet way, Stan was braver than them all, Richie thought. Hoped.

“Let’s go,” Stan said.

“Yeah?” Richie asked.

Stan paused, then nodded. “I don’t wanna be here anymore. Let’s go to the Barrens. To the clubhouse.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Can you walk?”

Richie sucked on his lip. “Uh… I think so.”

He put one hand on the wall and pushed himself up very slowly and forcefully. His knees knocked, skinny little foal’s legs barely supporting him, but his vision seemed steadier now.

Stan watched carefully, arms poised to catch Richie in case he took a dive.

“I’m fine, Stan.”

“Okay.”

Richie began to walk towards the door at the end of the hall. Stan followed close behind.

“Hey,” Richie said. “Do you think our parents know?”

Stan shrugged. “I think they know about as well as we do.”

“Huh.” Richie took off his tie and draped it over a table as they passed. “Guess that explains some things.”

Stan stopped suddenly, and put a hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Hey, Richie: we can’t tell anyone… right?”

Richie stared blankly at Stan.

“I mean… you won’t tell anyone. About me.”

Richie’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “N-no way, Stan. I’m no snitch.” His hand shot up to his glasses.

“‘Cause I know that Bill doesn’t…” Stan’s eyes slid down to the floor. “You know.”

The scar slipped out again. Or maybe this was a slightly different one.

“Yeah,” Richie said. “What’s the point, right?”

Stan smiled sadly. Richie, chuckling, smiled back. 

But it still hurt. Just like Stan said. The good stuff was so easily marred by bad things. A little flicker of happiness so easily consumed by the darkness.

Or… maybe it went the other way?

Maybe Stan could be Richie’s light at the end of the tunnel. Something to hold onto when it hurt. Someone who hurt the same way. Someone to trade looks with, secret glances that said anything and everything.

“You’re my best friend, Stan,” Richie said.

Stan’s smile widened. “You’re my best friend, too.”

Richie laughed, with a little snort. Then, as if nothing at all had happened, he reached up and grabbed a handful of his friends hair, then pulled him down to about shoulder level and wrapped his spare arm around his neck. Stan allowed this all to happen, without so much as grunt of frustration.

“Heh, heh,” Richie taunted, ruffling Stan’s hair. The was a care to it, though-- Richie’s normally boisterous wrestling carefully avoided any actually harm, and kept Stan’s yarmulke firmly pinned to his head. “Against our parents’ wishes? Why, Stanley, surely you cannot be serious! Whatever would they do should they discover us?”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Stan muttered, though it was only a mutter to disguise his very obvious joy.

“Ah, ya got me!” Richie released his friend. “My Victorian nobleman needs more work.”

Stan chuckled. “How many impressions do you really need?”

“Why, one for every occasion, my good man!” Richie said, clapping Stan on the shoulder. Despite the voice, he was only half-kidding.

“Ready to go?” Stan asked.

“Yeah, let’s bounce.” Richie agreed. “I’m sick a’ this place.”

“Me too.”

Stan placed his palm against the door, and pushed into the sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I just wanted to add this little note, because I've had a few people express sadness after reading this:
> 
> If you're a Richie struggling with accepting yourself, you will find your Stan one day. We all do! In fact, most of you will find yourselves becoming the Stan just a few years down the line. Please try to find hope here, not sadness. Acceptance and understanding can be found in unlikely places. Please don't stop looking for it.


End file.
